Alice hears Dagmar’s amused grunt of acquiescence as she rises to make her own careful way down the hall. When Alice reaches the sitting room, her shoulders drop in relief. Cora is exactly as she’d envisioned—warm where she herself is cool. Her champagne silk dress dazzles in contrast to Alice’s deep plum fabric. Cora’s strawberry-blonde locks set in playful curls, one ringlet dropping loose, where Alice’s pale hair is pulled back tightly in a more austere and old-fashioned style. The younger woman will draw eyes while Alice works in shadowed corners. Just as she has planned it.
Béatrice stands watching for Alice’s verdict on her handiwork.
Alice nods, appreciation lifting the corners of her mouth.
Color returns to Béa’s cheeks at that and Cora outright beams, twirling about in her shining gown.
“It’s a good thing we’re selling this one or I’d be tempted to wear it every single day.”
Alice notes the wistful pleasure in Béa’s expression and wonders if she looked like this back in Montreal, in the years before her first arrest—a young teen working at a dressmaker’sshop, learning the trade, only close enough to the gowns to stitch them up, never to wear them herself.
I’ll buy her dresses to wear when this is done, Alice thinks.All the gowns and slippers and gloves she wants.
The front doorbell rings and Béa turns to see to it, jarring Alice out of her foolish thoughts.
Béatrice will be able to buyherselfdresses when all this is done. They all will.
“Mr. McAllister’s carriage is ready,” Béa returns to announce. Every inch the well-trained housemaid. One would never guess she was ever anything else.
Béatrice holds the door for Alice and Cora to step out onto the street. Alice can feel more than hear her warmly murmur, “Good luck,” as Alice sweeps past her into the waiting night.
Ward peeks out from his carriage door, held ajar by a footman, with a saucy grin. “My goodness, you do clean up well, Your Grace. And I am so very pleased to at last make the acquaintance of... is itLadyCora?”
“We are going with ‘Miss,’” Alice murmurs, Württembergian accent back in place as she settles beside Ward inside the carriage, Cora filling the spot opposite.
“I may have told a few people ‘lady,’” Ward frets. “Never mind that. This is going to be a night to remember.”
“In a good way, I hope, Mr. McAllister,” Cora says demurely.
Ward goggles at Alice. “That accent. She’s nailed it!”
Alice can’t help but smile as she shushes McAllister. He takes the hint, changing the subject.
“You know, there was a young fellow loiterin’ outside your house when I arrived,” Ward announces. “Didn’t much likethe look of him. He told me he was a reporter and I liked him even less.”
“Probably angling for a quote on the situation in Württemberg,” Alice says, looking away.
“You’re givin’ quotes to reporters on a fictional resistance movement?” Ward gawks. “Do you think that’s entirely wise?”
“How did P.T. Barnum put it?” Alice shrugs. “There is no such thing as bad publicity?”
“I couldn’t disagree with him more,” Ward drawls. “Lawd knows there’s plenty about myself I don’t plan on publicizin’ anytime soon. But I have nothing but faith in your own judgment, my dear duchess.”
Cora, Alice notes, has followed this turn in the conversation with barely concealed alertness. Even so, she asks no questions and remains uncommonly silent for the rest of the short drive down to the Financial District.
Nerves, Alice thinks. Or perhaps Ward drawing attention to her Württembergian accent has made her self-conscious about it.
Alice herself is more relieved than anxious when they arrive at last outside Delmonico’s flagship building alongside scores of other carriages bearing guests to the brightly lit doorway.
At the entrance to the restaurant, McAllister hands all three of their invitations to the doorman with a wink, then parts from them as the two women are ushered by a waiting maid into a dressing area that’s already awash with women. The sudden chatter and flash of color that assaults them as they walk in is such a contrast to the cozy insularity of the past several months in the flat on Thirty-Eighth and Third Avenue that Alice has to bite back a gasp as they step inside. The overall effect is one of an aviary full of tropical songbirds.
For her part, Cora looks, if anything, more at ease. Perhaps it reminds her of dressing rooms before performances.
“YourGrace,” comes a saccharine voice from across the room—Mrs. Pearl Ames, her many-layered gown of yellow charmeuse giving her the look of a mangled canary.
Alice straightens elegantly as she greets Mrs. Ames, knowing all eyes in the room have now turned away from their mirrors and firmly onto her.
Her own performance has now begun.
